


Chasms

by paratoxic



Series: Two-Part Avengers Angst [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - High School, Awkward Dates, Character Study, Denial of Feelings, Drug Use, Drunkenness, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Roller Coaster, Fist Fights, Heavy Angst, Howard Stark's Bad Parenting, Hurt No Comfort, Illegal Activities, M/M, Mental Instability, Mentions of Cancer, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Oblivious Steve Rogers, Partying, Protective Bucky Barnes, Sad Ending, Self-Destruction, Teenagers, Terminal Illnesses, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Underage Smoking, Unrequited Love, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-07-01 16:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15777597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paratoxic/pseuds/paratoxic
Summary: Tony Stark's life can be split into two halves: Before he told everyone about the worst thing that's ever happened to him, and After. Unfortunately, this is the latter.After means suffocating on a cocktail of illegal substances, getting far too good at pushing people away, and being embarrassingly in love with Steve Rogers. After means that Howard is locked away in his office, his mother's in denial and his brother is just... not there. It means refusing to talk about the elephant in the room.The elephant is telling him he's running out of time.





	1. The Sickness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Tumblr [here](http://paratoxic-ao3.tumblr.com/).

> 'Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.'

* * *

 

Tony is the party boy. He has an occasional drink, and then takes it too far, awed as the lights and colours of whatever night club he's in morph together. He parties with a smile, until he doesn't; until it's not for fun anymore. Until he's just doing it because he can and nobody tells him off anymore. Maybe he should've listened to the countless times Steve told him he should take a break for one night, that he'd feel better waking up in the morning without a hangover for once. Perhaps then he wouldn't be in the situation he's currently struggling through.

 

Suffocating in a little mass of bodies, dancing, melting, Tony wonders what it's like to die - to float into that void, that little piece of nothing you chase, the U-bend round the road you could've taken a million times before, under different circumstances. Plunge into that chasm like taking a bite out of yourself. He would probably realise that every 'life lesson' he's ever heard is gibberish since none of it ever made him any wiser. He would probably start apologising for everything. Maybe he'd cry.

 

Tony thinks of how close death is as he's high as a kite on whatever pills he took tonight - the food he's swallowed the wrong way, the car crashes he's narrowly avoided; learning how to swim in the deep end too young, the time he fell asleep with a concussion, the painkillers he's mixed with a few bourbons. One slip up and, if he was living alone, his bills would just lie at the front door and he would never pick them up; the glass of milk to help him sleep would go untouched. His mother might call him to reschedule dinner night but he wouldn't answer the phone.

 

Tony, dead, would take toward the dark quietly, slipping into another world. He might try to envision life outside of the chasm, and he can't. He can't imagine Steve binning his letters, his mom pouring his milk down the sink, Howard - Howard! - selling his car to pay for a funeral. All those people, existing, waiting for their turn to die, for the cycle to take them like it will take Tony. Like it's taking him now. Like it isn't giving him back.

 

“Come outside!” Steve yells over a deafening bass line. The vibrations sink into the floor and bounce off the walls of Tony’s skull. He hardly hears his friend until he's being towed to the fire escape, one hand in his pocket sheltering his debit card and fake ID. Once they're outside, the lack of noise is difficult to handle, and Steve notices that Tony can't breathe.

 

“Tony, hey, it’s okay, just look at me,” soothes Steve once he realises it's a side effect of a bad trip. Tony’s mind is tripping over itself when he looks wide-eyed at Steve, who's radiating gold, and it takes another minute - or ten, if time exists? - until he matches the boy's breathing. There's still a fuzzy hue circling his vision and his skin feels heavy but Steve is holding him at arms length and Tony realises he's pleasantly warm. That Steve looks pleasantly warm, and everything that he wants right now.

 

His stupidly intoxicated brain decides it would be a fantastic idea if he were to kiss his friend at that moment, so he lurches forward before he can reconsider and presses his lips hard against Steve’s. Kissing is an odd concept to Tony, something he's familiar with but has never attached any real meaning to. This is just like tying your shoelaces or riding a bicycle, walking in the park, drinking your morning coffee. Steve doesn't think so, and he pulls back in surprise.

 

“Tones...” He stammers, “What are you doing? You’re not in your right mind. Please tell me that didn’t just happen.” His lips are slightly bruised from the force of the kiss.

 

Steve is the kind of boy who wishes he could erase chunks of himself or perhaps toss them out into the vast expanse of space when they don’t suit him. Take all the featherlight kisses and simply discard them, like waves take rocks as they lap at a sandy shore. Take all his emotions and ball them up into a blindingly intense radiation, a sucking black hole that feelings can enter into but never escape. It’s convenient and quick and thoughtless, maybe even selfish, but it’s the way he’s used to going through life. It won’t change.

 

Tony maybe starts to say something, his mouth open and searching for an excuse as embarrassment settles in (he did not mean it to happen... he really didn’t), but he doesn’t get anywhere before he’s vomiting onto the ground and onto Steve’s shoes. Startled by the colour of it, he almost forgets where he is before he’s looking back up at the golden boy with an apology in his eyes.

 

Steve is even more lost for words but he’s known Tony his whole life so he forgives him instantly. There have been worse nights. He helps him to lean against the wall of the alley and considers calling his parents before deciding that’s an awful idea. “Tony, let’s go home. C’mon, I don’t want any more sick on me.” He tries to joke and it goes over both of their heads.

 

“You won’t,” slurs Tony, “my place is outta your way, just go. I’ll call you in the m’rning.” He doesn’t expect Steve to walk him all the way home at this hour, not when he’s just forced a kiss on him and puked on his shoes. A brief glance tells Tony they’re ADIDAS and he feels worse.

 

Of course Steve doesn’t pay attention to him. Steve is perfect, Steve is everything Tony’s not - he’s not impatient, he’s not selfish, he’s not a mess - and despite the prospect of either walking two miles or navigating about five different trains on the subway to get from Tony’s house to his own, Steve is the world’s best friend. He puts a hand on Tony’s arm as if to say, ‘You’re seventeen; it’s okay, we’re young, we all get like this sometimes’ and Tony fights back more vomit in his throat.

 

“It’s a bad night,” says Steve softly, “I know you’ll want to get it over with and go home; let’s just go now.”

 

“I can do it myself,” Tony snaps, “just go home. I get that it’s enough of a chore you’re out so late on a school night.” He immediately feels guilty for the words. Steve is an A student who keeps up his attendances but he isn’t a child with a curfew anymore. “S’ry. I just wanna be by myself. I’ll ride it out. Just go home,” he repeats.

 

Steve dismisses him. He starts to shake the contents of Tony’s stomach off his shoes with a grimace then glances sympathetically at the brunette, at his lips, and swallows. “Did you mean to kiss me?”

 

That’s such a dumb naive teenager thing to say. Tony is once again reminded of Steve’s blind innocence and how sheltered the boy is from the realities of the world. He wants to tell him: ‘Sometimes people do things purely because it will lead to drama and heartbreak and they know this but they do it anyway.’ But that isn’t why Tony kissed Steve. He kissed him because he’s jealous of Steve’s grip on life and Tony wants something to hold onto, to keep him from falling away into something that claws and rips at his throat.

 

“I didn’t mean to kiss you,” mumbles Tony anyway, still ashamed. It’s too much. The effects of the pill are nearly gone, leaving his existential crises behind, and he’s glad. It wasn’t a good trip. “If I promise to call later, will you leave me alone already?”

 

Steve can’t help the expression of hurt showing on his face, worsened when Tony pretends not to notice. Despite everything, he can’t ignore the rooting instincts telling him to be there for his friend - and let him heal. “Let’s just forget about tonight,” he decides despite knowing that it will never happen. Oblivious to the very end. “I’ll see you at school tomorrow?”

 

Tony sighs a little to himself in relief. No more pestering. Simultaneously, however, he feels a lump in his throat at the looming threat of being completely alone again. Maybe he should be used to it by now. “Right. See you.”

 

He begins the walk home, solo, trying not to think about Steve, trying not to think about how lonely it will be when he gets back. He imagines his parents fighting again. It’s all they seem to do now, yell and yell and then pretend everything’s okay when their son comes into view. Tony detests nothing more than the forced smile on his mother’s face.

 

He’s too fed up to locate the closest metro station that takes him the right direction so he just walks. His high is so gone by the time he gets to the front door that it’s depressing. Slipping quietly inside, he notices all the lights are already off - of course, his family will be sleeping especially since it’s God knows what time in the morning. The sun will peek above the horizon any minute now. The familiar weight of exhaustion plagues Tony into considering crashing on the sofa to avoid journeying up the stairs, but keeping him awake is the horrible feeling in his stomach.

 

He trudges to the kitchen, determined that it should go away if he eats something, and hunts in the freezer for a pizza, finding something with tomato and basil in it. Great. He clumsily turns on the family’s ‘vintage’ oven almost to the highest temperature and waits for it to warm up, head ducked partially into the kitchen sink in case he’s sick again. Tony doubts it will happen but the last thing he needs is for that to need cleaned up.

 

It’s incredible how people take good health for granted - how they don’t completely cherish every second they’re not throwing up their insides. Tony is suddenly so very glad he’s not vomiting into the sink. He vomits a lot these days, and it gets beyond tiring. The oven light goes off, signalling he should put his food in; he struggles with the cardboard wrapping.

 

Waiting the eight or whatever minutes it takes for the pizza to cook isn’t the most boring task in the world. Tony drags a chair over so he can check on its progress and leans his head against his palm. Maybe it could be ten minutes if he wants the crusts to be crunchy; he turns up the temperature, hoping the sauce doesn’t drop off the edges because he’s thrown it straight in, never mind a baking tray or anything of the sort.

 

He wonders what the other bodies in the house are dreaming about at this moment. He wonders about what Steve could be dreaming about. He hates being in his own small reality, only aware of what his brain can tell him - he doesn’t get, for example, the colour red, the way it’s supposed to represent rage and burning yet also a sensual romance or fierce spirit. Tony only sees a colour, limited, nothing to him but apparently so much more to others.

 

The pizza is only half-burnt around the crusts when Tony takes it out the oven, but still soggy in the middle. He eats half of it before deciding it isn’t helping his stomach, which now just feels cramped, instead of cramped and empty. It makes him regretful to think of the wasted food, not just the pizza but everything he’s ever had to put in the trash because he couldn’t eat it. He washes his oily hands in a daze before switching off the lights and navigating the way to his bedroom by running his fingers against the walls. Tonight, the walls don’t whisper back to him.

 

*

 

“For Christ’s sakes, can you not hear me shouting?” Tony’s mom yanks the covers off of her son’s body, curled up, at six o’clock in the morning. The city, outside, can already be heard like a child screaming for attention from their second story window. Tony comes to groggily, too out of it to find the blankets and pull them back over his head.

 

He sort of rolls out of bed, embarrassed to find his jeans still buttoned up and cuffed around his legs. He was clearly too messed up to change into his pyjamas last night, or at least strip down, and now he’ll have angry red marks from where the elasticated waist gripped his hips in the night. He rubs his thumbs over the dents in his body.

 

His mom says nothing about his ‘I got home late’ state except she does point to his hair. “For the love of God, fix that,” she says, though hesitantly, “and come down, get some breakfast.”

 

Tony all of a sudden remembers the pizza from last night and groans at the wave of nausea that accompanies. “Five more minutes. Not hungry. Go. Leave. Please.” All abilities to communicate vastly turn to absolute hell this early in the morning. He can hear something chirping in a nearby tree and considers making the ‘two birds, one stone’ saying a reality. Why are birds even around, anyway? All they seem to do is crash into windows and take dumps on people’s heads. Evolution doesn’t take to all living things...

 

“You’re taking your lunch, at least. I packed it today.” His mother looks proud of herself, refreshed and prepared. It’s usually his grumbling old dad that throws a hastily-made sandwich from last week’s bread loaf into a paper bag for Tony. If he’s lucky, he gets an apple; maybe an orange. Thought is never put into the choice. “Anthony, don’t you dare wear the jeans with the seven holes in them,” his mom tells him as she’s leaving his room.

 

So he wears a pair that only has a small tear. Tony’s too busy spending what little money he has on drugs to care about new decent clothes. He brushes his teeth then packs his bag, then brushes his teeth again, just to show the idiots at school he can be presentable. Or, at least he won’t get gum disease. He’ll have the pinkest, healthiest gums in all his classes, he thinks giddily. Priorities, skewed. Downstairs, there are two paper bags on the kitchen bunker.

 

“Gregory!” Tony’s mom is calling for his brother and Tony is almost about to ask where his father is at half past six in the morning (the man’s an early riser, and should be standing around drinking his coffee already) before he gathers that he’s probably in his office, getting an early start to his working day. Tony rolls his eyes as his mother continues yelling. “GREG!”

 

“He probably slept over at his friend’s again,” Tony points out, annoyed, and his mom turns to look at him from the bottom of the stairs with nothing more than confusion on her face. Tony says, “Mom.” That seems to snap her out of it, and she blinks, and walks off. Tony’s twin brother hardly ever wants to be in the house, and it’s no wonder. God knows if he’s really at a friend’s house or living rough on the streets, but Tony chooses to believe and recite the former for both his and his family’s benefit.

 

Howard takes the time to make his appearance then, heading straight for the coffee machine before doing a double take at his son’s presence and turning angrily on him. “You left the oven on last night.” He points at the old piece of crap which still exhibits a red light, the dial turned up to the maximum temperature, an orange glow warm inside its belly. Tony moves to turn it off with a wince. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? You could have burned the place down.”

 

“I’m bewildered you noticed,” Tony snarks, swiping his lunch from the counter and stuffing it in his school bag. The contents are crushed instantaneously, but he knows it makes no difference to him what the slop he digests looks like on the outside. He stares at his brother’s for a second before shaking his head. He could bicker with his parents all day but for some reason, he cares about getting to class on time right now. The commute takes a while.

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” His dad scoffs back at the remark before his mom says, “Howard, you have been immersing yourself in your work of late,” and then there’s something about ‘who do you think pays for your damn hair appointments’ and screw this and screw that, on and on. Tony kind of disappears into the wallpaper as they fight, waiting for a good time to turn his back and slam the door. There never really is one.

 

“The point is, it was an accident. And yelling at Tony isn’t going to help his—”

 

“If you’re quite done, I’m off to sucker punch a freshman and smoke weed behind the bleachers. Have a great day.” Tony slams the door louder than he planned to on his way out, sighing a little in satisfaction at the silence from inside that lasts for about three whole seconds before his parents break out into a wilder, more furious argument. No doubt it’s still centred around him. He doesn’t stop to think about when the last time either of them said ‘I love you’ was.

 

He only witnesses one fight on the subway during the forty minute journey to school. Grown men knocking each others’ teeth out. The splatters of blood across the metro system never really come out, no matter how persistently the late-night cleaners bleach them. Sometimes, they’re on the wall, and it adds an interesting splash of colour to the usual beige that Tony will glare at, waiting for the next train. Here is the bloody birth of his being down in the underground of the city, smeared across the crooked surfaces of the stations, waiting to burst when he dies.

 

In the hallways of his school, a few people turn to stare at the seventeen-year-old boy with raw lips and black circles under his eyes, trudging in with his teeth too white and a single rip in his jeans. Tony avoids their equal parts curious, sad and judgemental looks, focused on making it to where he needs to go without bumping into Steve. Everything that happened last night, he wants to forget it. Pretend it never happened, like Steve crudely suggested.

 

He’s not so lucky. Tony sees a crowd parting before he catches a glimpse of Bucky Barnes. The rough-looking boy has his narrowed eyes fixated on Tony, who stands by his locker silently, repressing a shudder. He strolls up to Tony with determination but also a hint of hesitation, like he’s angry but he’s reminding himself of his setting. Bucky is the most notorious ‘troublemaker’ in senior year, renowned for his blunt nature and loyalty to his friends - loyalty to Steve.

 

“You really blew him off last night,” says Bucky when they’re face to face and the students passing by deliberately duck their heads, not wanting to intrude, “and worried him by not calling.”

 

Tony mentally face-palms. That’s on him, forgetting to call like he promised he would. Guilt brews a steady potion inside him. Before he can make up a halfhearted excuse, Bucky continues, angrier, “And you kissed him.”

 

Tony wants to snap back a ‘so?’ but decides that wouldn’t be in his best interest. He settles for a look of incredulity, though falsely so, as it doesn’t come as a surprise that Steve told Bucky about the kiss. It doesn’t bother him either - it’s karma. This is what he gets for the decisions he makes without consulting the brain of the consequences to come. “I didn’t mean… I was a little out of it.” He skips the part about the drugs.

 

Bucky doesn’t appear impressed. “I know you and Steve are close.” Then his expression softens with something like amusement, and relief brushes past Tony’s shoulder. Bucky’s eyes tell him a story that says it’s always going to be okay, no matter how bad he messes up. “I know what he’s like - a little awkward, a little not ready. He probably didn’t want to hurt your feelings, or know how to tell you after that, but we’re dating.”

 

Tony has to physically stop a choked noise escaping his lips, like some sort of proud athlete trying not to overreact at a broken leg. An Olympian who’s tripped over the smallest hurdle and the crowd can only watch. It makes sense now, why Steve seemed almost afraid of himself after the kiss, thinking he’d cheated on Bucky. Bucky isn’t dumb, though; he’ll understand Steve wouldn’t have kissed back. There’s nothing to forgive on that part. Tony averts his eyes shamefully and rushes out a single-word apology: “Sorry.”

 

He’s sort of shocked he hasn’t been shoved onto the ground yet. Bucky only shrugs. “It’s alright. Just don’t do it again or I’ll knock your teeth in,” he admonishes thoughtfully like he’s talking about the weather. He slowly goes to put his hand on Tony’s shoulder in a gesture meaning truce, but pauses. In the end, he decides not to. The ghost of his touch is heavy against Tony’s skin. “Stevie’s friends are my friends, you know. Don’t be a stranger.”

 

As Bucky walks away, Tony doesn’t wonder why the guy was so easy on him. He isn’t confused as to why he hasn’t been beaten to a pulp. If it were anyone else, he wouldn’t have been so lucky. But Bucky just has to look into Tony’s eyes and remember the circumstances - remember everything - and he’s granted immunity from anything horrific that could ever be deliberately inflicted on him. Like a God walking across water, who could never drown.

 

Steve watches on, from a distance, his own thoughts of deities plagued with worries of what’s to happen to his friend.

 

*

 

When Tony was little, he looked up to his very-slightly-older twin brother, asking him for advice when too nervous or embarrassed to turn to his parents. Upon realising he was gay (... bisexual? Whatever it ends up being), he wasn’t immediately inclined to admit it - so asking for advice became... different. It wasn’t that he was scared of a reaction, he just didn’t want to make it out as a big deal.

 

“There is this one... girl,” admits Tony one afternoon, perhaps six years ago yet it really feels like yesterday, and Gregory listens carefully, “and I’m not saying I’m not grateful and all, because at least she knows I exist and h- she talks with me all the time, like in chemistry and… I don’t know. I don’t know what to do to make it more than that. I don’t know how to talk to... her.” Tony blushes and looks at his brother. “What would you do?”

 

Gregory, although the same age with similar life experiences, already has some ideas about how to talk to girls. “I’d say you gotta start simple. Talk about literally everything you can and with any luck, she’ll get really into talking about something and she won’t shut up and you could probably listen to her forever. Because the most important thing is that you absolutely listen to her - that’s what mom always says. No shortcuts.”

 

“No… shortcuts,” Tony echoes dubiously. What if something utterly useless and boring becomes a whole topic of conversation? What if he’s quizzed on it, answer A or B or C? Strongly agree to strongly disagree?

 

“No shortcuts. Pick up on every little detail you’d usually miss, and then you can talk to her later about, like, her sister’s stupid haircut or whatever and she’ll be happy you remembered; that you care enough to pay proper attention.” Gregory suppresses a snicker, wise beyond his years. “But you’re not gonna be very good at it right away - accept that right now, and work on it. There’s always room for improvement, right? She’ll forgive you for not telling the right joke or tripping over your words, but she won’t forgive you if you act like she’s not worth it, you know?”

 

“So I have to be... persistent,” realises Tony with a slow nod, internally wondering if he’s used the right word since he isn’t entirely sure what it means. Never give up - that seems easy enough advice to follow.

 

“Sure, but don’t be aggressive about it.” Gregory tells him insistently. “If for whatever reason she tells you to back off, be respectful and back off. We have to know that women have, well, limits and they’re only gonna be nice to you if you respect them and don’t cross any lines. It’s cliché, but just be your usual bubbly self and I’m sure she’ll love you.”

 

“She, uh, might not even be interested at all since I’m not around much,” Tony groans as the thought occurs to him, “I’ve been off sick all this week!” As if to prove his point, he starts coughing up what seems like a damn lung. He was always a sick child. His mother likes to look over the back of her shoulder to check on him from time to time.

 

“It’s just one week.” Gregory waves it off. “Play it to your advantage; ask if she missed you when you go back. If she says no, she’s only joking. Nobody would actually be cruel enough to say no and mean it. You’re too precious.”

 

“I don’t want to be precious,” Tony protests. It’s a reminder of his stubborn refusal to accept he’s just some eleven-year-old kid instead of a manly twenty-one-year-old in a tuxedo, buying his dates martinis that are extra dry with extra olives, when he doesn’t even get to think about puberty yet, really.

 

“You’re super precious,” teases Gregory again without cruel intent, “don’t worry, apparently girls dig nice guys. It’s because it means you’re always going to look out for them. Y’know, I have a lot to teach you considering we should know the same things, being twins and all. But that’s okay, I don’t mind. Mom says it feeds my ‘narcissism’, though, whatever that means. Now say ‘thanks for helping me, Greg’ and bonus points for ‘you’re the best’.”

 

“Thanks for helping me, Greg,” Tony gives in, and Gregory waits for him to go on with a smile, but his brother only rolls his eyes.

 

*

 

Tony feels repressed - detached from his physical self, spaced out mentally, deliberately and desperately ignoring the nagging pit in his stomach, again. It's gotten worse, lately, the constant experience of dread, like his internal clock is ticking down the seconds until he snaps; has a breakdown. It's overdue. He's trying to make up for it, and use his time constructively. He's managed to trick himself into thinking going on an actual date is worthwhile, and the regret is already unbearable.

 

Natasha meets with him outside the movie theatre, cocking her head in confusion all the while. She knows he doesn't exactly swing for her team. Tony fully expected her not to show; thought she'd realise maybe he was using her to experiment. A curiosity in a circus. But she's present, out of politeness if anything.

 

"I'm really sorry," says Tony, immediately, noting the way she's done her makeup nice but not too nice, brushed her hair but not overdone it, "but for the record, you could've said no."

 

Natasha gives him an incredulous look. "I most certainly could not say no, Tony." And that's got nothing to do with anything other than the pity she feels for him. "Besides, a guy wants to take me to a movie where he pays for the ticket? It's a highly unoriginal idea and even a little sexist, but hey. Free entertainment and all."

 

"I could get us popcorn." Tony suggests in an awkward mutter. "We could put it between us and stick our hands in at the same time. I'd touch your fingers and you'd stop and look at me, and some couple on the screen would kiss, and then I'd warn you I'm really, really, probably gay."

 

That gets her to laugh and Tony is proud, because Natasha Romanov hardly ever cracks a smile. But it's over as soon as it started and she's running an embarrassed hand through her red curls, avoiding his gaze. Shiftiness is not a look that suits her, surprisingly (everything else becomes her because, duh, it’s Natasha Romanov). "It's a nice idea but I don't like popcorn."

 

"You look really nice tonight," says Tony anyway, determined not to make this a complete failure. And it’s only the truth. He watches for a reaction and Natasha blinks before settling on a small lopsided smirk, both easy-going and apprehensive. She thanks him like a parent thanks a child who drew a picture for the fridge.

 

The movie is 'Romeo and Juliet', the nineties remake. Leonardo DiCaprio glows young and ambitious as the lead, proclaiming how he defies the stars and some other nonsense gibberish so intense that Tony wonders if Shakespeare perhaps took drugs. But then he shakes his head at the thought, knowing he's tried all the drugs under the sun and none of them make him want to misuse the English language like that. He cringes the whole way through.

 

Natasha doesn't speak during the film, keeping her eyes trained on the screen for two hours and ten minutes, squinting like she's tired. Or bored. Tony doesn't want to know which nor does he try to hold her hand, equally weighed down. It's half eleven when they get out, and the clouds cover the blackness of the sky, thick with impending rain. It’s a disaster, in his mind.

 

One drop spits onto Tony's forehead before Natasha speaks suddenly. "You know they're saying Shakespeare might have smoked weed?"

 

Tony's lip actually curls in disbelief, his mood rising an inch or two. He's down twenty dollars and a couple of hours of his time and now he's imagining a sixteenth-century playwright getting high - so much for productivity. "Huh. It makes sense, I guess. Let's get a cab."

 

The ride to drop Natasha off at her place is one of the most uncomfortable Tony's had to endure. He might have struck up conversation again, maybe about Shakespeare and marijuana, but the cab driver already looks wary of the weird chemistry between the two teenagers and he isn’t sure what Natasha’s views are on those kinds of illegal substances. It would probably only make things worse. The rain is coming down heavy now and he curses himself over and over for coming up with this idea.

 

Natasha keeps her hands in her lap and Tony stares at them with indifference, imagining how they'll move to open the taxi door and the front door of her house then wrap around her mom's neck, her dad's waist, telling them all about the terrible date she's just been on. Tony will simply go back to his nuclear-bomb family, straight to bed at the centre of his home filled with the kind of poisonous gas you can’t cough up, without needing to raise his hands for much at all. No hugs; no contact. Just him and a feeling of never-ending suffocation.

 

Natasha's house is tall and narrow, made of bricks crammed in so tight it's like they built it with the Big Bad Wolf in mind. Almost not, though, as it looks like it could be blown down in a quick gust. It’s temporary, like most things. Tony dives into his pockets, breaking out of his train of thought, but Natasha's already handing the driver over enough cash to cover the travel. She gets out and he stumbles mindlessly after her, knowing his own place isn't a massive walk away.

 

She trudges to her doorstep, a lack of conversation prevalent and painful, and Tony stops. Before she can look at him once again with sadness or remorse, Tony blurts out, "It's fine, though, right? We at least tried. Like, we at least... We know now. It's fine." He really isn’t sure what he’s saying, but she understands.

 

Natasha turns back with one eyebrow raised, her attitude changing. "My dad is up waiting for me. I..." She pauses thoughtfully then eventually nods her head to herself. "Okay. Yeah, it's fine. It is. This could have gone a lot worse, you know, even if you don’t believe it. We could’ve been caught in a shooting or an alien invasion. There are always worse things that can happen to a person. Don’t worry about it.”

 

“An alien invasion would have been less anticlimactic,” Tony chortles, not taking much note of the point she’s trying to make.

 

“I like you, Tony.” She goes on, trying to get him to catch on. “I like being your friend. We don’t have to try a whole romance thing that frankly neither of us want to deal with anyway. I’m happy right here. This is the most confusing stuff I've had to face in a while but I'm here for you, okay? Even when... Even with everything that's happening."

 

Tony smiles then, and she smiles too when she's closing the door behind her, trapping the yellow lights of her hallway out of his reach. He spins to go home, somewhat relieved.

 

Home, for Tony, is still a funny place. His brother is still absent when he gets there, and he doesn’t comment on it. He tries to be quiet upon shutting the door behind him, aware he’s come back late and the lights are off. He’s close to heading up the stairs to his room and making it all seem alright until he hears yelling.

 

“You know exactly why, Howard! You’re busy playing the ‘ignorance is bliss’ card and I’m always the one that has to deal with the consequences! When was the last time you even smiled at Tony, or bothered to ask where Greg is? It’s always on me!” Maria Stark’s shrill voice could be heard for miles down the streets.

 

Howard is only slightly quieter, infinitely more reserved, yet defeated when he speaks. “We’ve been given a problem that cannot be fixed! What do you expect me to do? I have no idea what to do, I haven’t from the start, and we knew it would be difficult—”

 

“Difficult! It’s impossible! We are losing our children and you sit in your office all day like you don’t see what’s right in front of you!” Tony’s mother stops, then, and Tony can picture her running fingers through her hair that’s usually so well-kept but perhaps it’s falling loose, now. Her tone deepens in sincerity, and Tony strains to hear what she says next. “I want a divorce. I can’t - I—”

 

Tony swallows deeply and tunes out the rest of her babbling. He decides to seize the moment to go into the kitchen where they’re arguing, making himself painfully known. Both adults are immediately silent, turning to look at him with dismay. They know he heard the gist of the conversation, about how he’s the very issue that can’t be resolved. Like he’s an object that can’t be wound back up again and is standing on its one remaining leg.

 

His dad is the first to break the stare that lingers as an accusation and he says, “I’m going to bed.”

 

Howard leaves Tony and his mother to the room, artificially lit with an aura that makes Tony’s head hurt. It’s a swirl of meaningless colours dancing and spitting pain. He blinks against the brightness, taking a slow seat at the table. The air that surrounds him is always too thick. “Mom...”

 

“How was your date?” His mother interrupts him nonchalantly. It surprises Tony but he manages to answer with a vague ‘fine’. The last thing he wants is to go into the agonising details of it with her.

 

“I think Greg would like to hear about it,” she goes on sadly, taking note of how her other son is once again not present, out doing whatever he’s doing.

 

Tony scowls at the floor. “Yeah,” he responds with detachment. Tiredness starts to seep in and it feels odd. His last leg has jerked under pressure, snapped like the rest of him, and he’s left as a torso rolling down a slope. He looks at his mother’s sunken and pale face. “Don’t pack his lunch tomorrow.”

 

“Tony,” she blurts out without making an effort to move but Tony is already up and avoiding her eyes again. There are always too many eyes, always watching him. Never ceasing their concern - concern that’s close enough to see but distant enough that it can’t touch him, that it refuses to. This is a problem and a half. He pictures his bedroom, vacant and dark, then himself in it, emptier still.

 

Tony, in his room, himself, is vacant. He lies in bed over the covers, his head barely resting on the pillow. He levitates within his head as it suits him. His eyes remain open for a while, until perhaps he falls asleep with them like that, still and lost and just another problem that can’t be fixed.


	2. The Cure

“How was your day at school, anyway?”

Tony is transported to a time not too long ago. Gregory is biting into his latest purchase, a Subway sandwich that he hasn’t tried before - he’s challenging himself to go through every possible combination of every flavour and topping at the food place. Tony knows there are over thirty-seven million variations but he doesn’t want to crush his brother’s dreams.

Tony kicks a pebble down the street as they walk back from school, hands stuffed defiantly into his pockets. “It sucked. Everyone teased me for being the only one in class that got full marks on my physics test then Justin stole my lunch and threw it in the trash.”

Gregory stops abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk, causing an angry-looking businesswoman to crash into the back of him. She makes a startled noise and smooths out her blazer before pushing past him. He doesn’t react, too immersed in wondering why anyone in their right mind would want to bully his brother. “Justin?” He echoes. “Justin who?”

“Hammer,” answers Tony and grabs Gregory’s arm to keep towing him along, “it doesn’t matter. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, he stole your lunch! Where does he live? Which train station does he go to after school?”

“Greg!” Tony huffs in exasperation. “You can’t touch him, his parents are super rich and important and I don’t even wanna know what kind of lawyers he could afford.” Gregory glares on indignantly and rips another chunk out of his sandwich with his teeth like a lion going for a gazelle’s flesh. “Besides,” Tony goes on with hesitance, “I spent the rest of the day feeling sick. Lunch wouldn’t have gone down well.”

Gregory gives him a look that suggests concern but it’s hidden by the good-natured knowledge that conflict between them is usually nothing but hurtful. “Tony,” he says in warning then decides not to push it, instead shaking his head and going for, “If you ever need anything, you know where I sit at lunch, right? So if Jason—”

“Justin,” Tony tries to correct him under his breath.

“If Jensen thinks it’s funny to waste good food in today’s environmental crisis, just poke my shoulder and you can have some of my biscuits or something. Mom always gives me at least five.”

“I get four if I’m lucky!” For some reason, that really irks Tony but his brother only laughs, quickly uttering an assurance of money if he ever wants to buy more. The brunette doesn’t laugh along with him, feeling vague and sad. “I don’t really get hungry at lunch times anymore.”

Gregory’s relationship with Tony has always been close. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t know how to handle the situation. He’s subconsciously worried he might bring up a touchy subject - Tony doesn’t like doctors and the thought of going to see one for his ongoing stomach bug might send him into panic. But brothers look out for each other, even if it’s hard. Forget not wanting to start a conflict. “You need to get some medication sorted out for that, you know. I’m started to get nervous.”

“No way, I’d have to explain it to mom. Even worse, dad. Then he’s gonna yell at me for just wanting to miss school,” groans Tony then as an afterthought, “and he wouldn’t really be wrong.”

“What if you have that parasite in you that they’re teaching us about in biology right now?” Gregory suggests with wide eyes. “The worm that eats your intestines from the inside out and lays its eggs in your—”

“You really don’t get that in this country,” Tony retorts, “and I have the most fantastically healthy lifestyle. You would be the one to get contaminated from all that crap you’re eating.” He motions to the sandwich Gregory has almost finished eating. The fillings spill out from the bread, oozing mayonnaise and cheese and other processed rubbish. Gregory makes an offended noise.

“You think you’re healthy? What, you work out now? Wanna get all buff to stand up to that Jason guy? Look all impressive for the girl of your dreams?” Gregory teases but stops when all Tony does is duck away with a blush, no comeback coming to mind. “Oh, Christ. This the same girl in your chem class you asked me about?”

“Well…” Tony starts, unsure if it’s the right time to mention that the girl isn’t exactly a girl.

“God, just ask her out already. It’s insufferable to watch.” His brother licks butter off of his fingers in satisfaction, proud to have finally finished his oversized meal. Tony wishes he had the stomach to be jealous. “Combination forty-six, done.”

*

“… Exactly forty-six variables networking to form part of a - Mr Stark, is there something interesting behind your eyelids or would you like to stay awake and pay attention to my class?”

Tony shakes himself awake, present day, Tuesday, a never-ending wave of nausea and tiredness hitting him at once. He lifts his head and gazes around his computer science class, meeting the eyes of twenty something other students. The teacher waits for a response, but Tony knows it isn’t utterly necessary to give his undivided attention to her - he’ll pass this class with ease either way.

He humours her with a grumble. “Sorry.”

The weight of the eyes lessens to an extent but still, the teacher doesn’t let up. She stands and stares, determined not to move, and Tony doesn’t break eye contact. The hazel flecks in her irises melt together, clearer now the brunette is sober for the first time in a while. Her eyelashes flutter in reluctance to blink but then she’s turning around at a one-eighty degree angle, seeming remorseful.

She can’t really be mad at him. Tony knows this, the student body knows this, the world knows this. So she simply clears her throat and goes back to teaching the lesson that Tony won’t listen to. “Uh, networking to form part of a more complex system…”

Tony ducks his head and realises he’s facing a blank page in his notebook. He gnaws on his lip thoughtfully before picking up a pencil and starting to doodle. Skulls and graffiti, at first, moving onto facial expressions and small kids running around in their gardens. The kids end up looking dangerously sad. Tony reflectively adds in a shaded ambulance; just in case.

The rest of the lesson is painfully slow and Tony spends most of it drawing and looking at the second hand on the clock overhead. The bell is shrill in his ears and he groans, concluding that today is a Bad Day. He wants to find Natasha and properly apologise for the horror that was their date the previous night, or Steve - Steve, God - to beg his forgiveness for that kiss. He’s never been so embarrassed.

Lunch break floats up on Tony all at once, then, as he finds himself sitting alone at one of the tables in the cafeteria. Being the horrible person he is, he doesn’t go looking for anyone but rather waits for them to come to him, despite the absolute mess he must look. Maybe the scent of despair is keeping them away. He’s getting deep into his wallowing when a lunch tray smacks down opposite him and Natasha takes a seat.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Tony insists immediately, lying.

Natasha gives him a cynical smile. “Right.” She leans forward, picking up a Granny Smith apple thoughtfully before taking a bite. She gestures down to where his hands rest on the table, fiddling with his fingers. “No lunch?”

“I’m hungover,” Tony keeps lying as if it will explain things, because once he starts he can’t stop, and his heart is racing thinking over and over again about Steve and what he needs to say to him, “and freaking out. Yeah, definitely freaking out.”

“About what? Life is too short to—” She cuts herself off with a dismissive wave of her slender hand. “Anyway, you can tell me what you need to tell.”

“It’s Steve,” he groans, enjoying the way that they’ve seemed to just fall into being friends, no awkwardness, no questions, “I did something bad. I should talk to him but I’m worried it’ll make it worse.”

“Stark.” There’s a sudden hand on his shoulder that isn’t Natasha’s, and Tony’s eyes nearly pop out of their sockets in shock. He cranes his neck to assess who’s touching him and doesn’t like what he sees.

Justin Hammer stands with his varsity jacket slung over his lean shoulders, glasses perched low on the bridge of his nose, a serious look overtaking the usual jeer on his face. His stance is non-threatening, though Tony is cautious about his unexpected appearance.

Natasha cocks her head in warning at the bully but he speaks with only a level tone. “I know we haven’t talked in a while.”

“I don’t recall us ever talking,” Tony points out with venom lacing his voice, “just seven and a half hours a day of not being able to eat. Man, those lessons really worked up an appetite.”

“Well, things are different now,” Justin replies stiffly, choosing not to retaliate yet, “and I wanted to apologise for doing what I did to you. I was a dumb kid. It was years ago and - I’m trying not to make excuses, it’s just - it was wrong. I get that now. I’m sorry.”

Tony shakes his head in disbelief and doesn’t reply, his mind going back to those children in their gardens with their ambulances. It’s an act, the whole thing; a ploy to get on the principal’s good side so he’ll get a decent reference for a college, or some crap like that. Justin couldn’t care less about him.

“I know I messed up,” he goes on, “but Tony… I didn’t know about it, man. I didn’t know. And I’m sorry—”

Something in Tony snaps. His internal clock (five seconds to mental breakdown… four…) has run out and he shoots up out of his seat and pounces on Justin, knocking them both to the cafeteria floor. Instantly, it captures the attention of the immediate audience around them. Tony screams, “STOP TALKING ABOUT IT!”

He intends just to throw one punch - hopefully crack his nose or at least split open his lip - but after that, he loses count. The blows land furiously on every inch of Justin’s face, swiping his head from side to side until his eyelids flutter shut and he’s rendered unconscious. Tony wants to beat him until he can’t recognise the bloody mess beneath him. He wants to erase the boy, banish every trace of him that ever existed. Maybe then he’d understand what Tony feels like.

He doesn’t think. Natasha is the one that ends up having to strike her elbow down to the back of his head to dizzy him into stopping, and then she heaves him off of the blacked out teenager who was at his mercy. Tony struggles in her grasp for a moment then stops, his chest heaving and knuckles black and blue. The spectators had formed a circle, now waiting intently for his next move.

Tony gets up, trying to control his breathing. Justin is sprawled out, a puddle of blood underneath his hair. He feels sick, so sick he doesn’t hear the principal barging through the crowd, shouting at everyone to make room. Natasha leans in and whispers into Tony’s ear through a cupped hand, “It’s going to be okay.”

He’s taken to the principal’s office at once, surprised he’s not been put in handcuffs.

There’s an ambiguous talk that follows. Tony is told that what he’s done is horrific, that he best pray Justin’s (rich and important… rich and important) parents don’t want him imprisoned or that the boy has a concussion so bad he doesn’t remember to tell them. The ambiguous part commences when the principal sighs and says to Tony, “Of course, I cannot punish you.”

Tony wants to scream. “You should. Sir, I deserve it.”

“You and I both know how delicate of a situation this is, Tony. Now, you’ve gotten into trouble before, granted never this much, but I’ve always let you off the hook. You know why this is, and why it can’t change.” Yes, Tony knows perfectly the reason he’s immune to punishment at the school’s hands. At the world’s hands. He wishes it didn’t have to be like that.

He’s tempted to slam the door shut behind him on the way out but settles for a quiet closing, heading for the closest fire exit. If the alarm goes off, what does he care? Lunch break is over so the grassy fields outside are vacant of any people, which he sighs in relief at. He’s never before wanted so much to be alone.

He makes his way to the outdoor bleachers, ducking beneath them to settle into the shade. He takes a seat on the grass, which is cold and damp but it doesn’t bother him, and shakily works to unzip his bag. A small bag of pills is the first thing that emerges, similar if not the same to the ones he took that night he kissed Steve. He exhales in disappointment at himself and puts them back.

Footsteps ruin his quick moment of peace and he curses under his breath, not wanting to be found. But the person who ends up coming to sit beside him is Steve, and maybe this is a sign that he’s been waiting for, a sign that says he should talk things through with the blond and everything will work itself out.

Steve approaches the matter in a horribly awkward way. “I love Bucky. I’m in love with him, do you understand? I can’t switch those feelings off. Same way I can’t switch feelings on. I want to clear things up, I want - look, we’re friends.”

“Friends,” echoes Tony in a drawl, happy to show that he is more than let down, “right. Everyone wants to be my ‘friend’, Stevie, I get it.”

“You shouldn’t call me that,” Steve murmurs, unsure.

Tony fights the urge to laugh and ridicule his ‘friend’. “I get that nothing is the same anymore… but I would go back, if I could. And I wouldn’t have kissed you, okay? I wouldn’t have done it. So you can quit beating yourself up with guilt and listen to me - it’s okay to pretend it never happened, alright? That’s what you wanted, anyway.”

“I don’t think that’s a healthy way of working through your problems,” Steve points out. He runs his fingers through the grass beneath them - it needs cut. “God, Tony, look what happened to us. I know it’s nobody’s fault but - where did we go wrong to deserve this?”

“‘We’?” Tony exclaims. “That’s rich. Oh, and I suppose next you’re going to instantly forgive me for nearly beating Justin Hammer to death.”

“You know I forgive you,” Steve argues, and Tony scoffs to himself. Golden Boy.

“Did you ever consider that maybe it’s not unfair? That maybe we deserve every bad thing that comes our way.” Tony goes off in a tangent. “I really think that karma is real, and that this is the universe’s way of telling me to quit being such a drama queen and take what’s given to me, even if it’s the worst thing possible.”

“Are you talking about…?” Steve trails off, looking like a damn towel that’s been wrung out and thrown carelessly on the ground. He sort of curls up into himself. He doesn’t need the affirmation. “I will never stop being sorry, though. Neither will anyone else.”

Tony nods, accepting this fact. They sit side by side in silence for a while before the brunette suddenly asks, “Do you want to smoke weed with me?”

Steve makes a disapproving noise like he’s been kicked in the stomach and Tony naively goes on. “I’ve got some on order. We could pick it up right now, we could just go—”

“No, I—” He puts a hand on Tony’s knee, an action that makes him clam up, “I… can’t. I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Okay,” Tony mumbles in hurt that he’s been denied as Steve grabs his bag and walks out from underneath the bleachers. Tony watches as the boy with the perfect life saunters off without looking back.

*

Tony makes it to Thursday without taking anymore drugs before the withdrawal symptoms become too much and he’s reaching for anything to distract him. Granted, in retrospect it probably wasn’t the best idea to take MDMA at breakfast. The ecstasy rushes through his bloodstream like a high-speed train, knocking at every crevice and corner of his body until he’s on high alert about every little detail.

School, this time, passes by inhumanly quick, though perhaps that has more to do with the fact that Tony keeps spacing out and dozing off during lessons instead of the drugs altering his perception of time. His computer science teacher doesn’t direct any questions at him after Tuesday’s incident and he’s grateful, preferring to loll and drool at the back of class in silence anyway.

He swallows more drugs before sixth period.

He’s practically jumping off the walls until he gets home, then everything starts to come crashing down. The ceiling physically weighs on him, a relentless pursuit to make him miserable. He tosses his bag onto the kitchen counter and rests one hand against the sink, breathing deeply to force himself into reality.

There is still no sign of his brother, of course. Tony swallows at the quietness of the house and is about to raid the fridge when he gets a text from Natasha. He doesn’t remember giving her his number, but he doesn’t remember much of today either. She’s asking if he wants to go out that night, and he sends back a quick, ‘Yes.’

Tony trudges to his father’s office and knocks twice on the door, feeling weirdly nervous. His dad hardly looks up from his laptop, loose paperwork surrounding his desk and even the floor, just humming an ignorant, “Hm?”

“Am I allowed to go out tonight?” Tony asks.

Howard furrows his brow, muttering something under his breath. After a pause he replies, “Why do you need to ask me that?” Tony tries to explain himself but his dad cuts in. “I’m busy, just go.”

“I was just wondering because it’s a school night. Thought you might want me back by a certain time,” Tony suggests, though he’s not sure why, since every other teenage boy should be rejoicing at the fact a curfew hasn’t been brought up yet.

Howard clicks insistently on his mouse and, again, takes a while to respond to his son. “You’re nearly an adult, Tony, I trust you to do what’s right.”

“You really don’t ca- mind?” Tony spits out, trying to get a rise out of the older man. Howard doesn’t react to it, instead choosing to ignore him. Tony, lost in a feeling of sadness mixed with anger, is outraged that his own father can’t even lift his head to look at his son’s pupils and see he’s high as a kite.

Howard used to care enough to downright forbid Tony going out on a school night. Even on weekends, the curfew was somewhat strict. Now Gregory has been missing for days and all he can do is continue to work, distracting himself with ‘providing for the family’ as he loses sight on what’s important. But Tony sucks in air and storms to his brother’s bedroom to complain, momentarily forgetting that of course he wouldn’t see what he wanted to see, and the vacancy nearly brings tears to his eyes.

Tony puts on the rebellious high-schooler act again and meets up with Natasha to attend a party they’re invited to. Natasha is wearing a pretty dress, made casual with a pair of Doc Martens and a distressed denim jacket, while Tony hasn’t bothered to change out of the clothes he wore to school.

“Justin gets out of hospital tomorrow,” she comments and something drops in Tony’s stomach, “he’s angry but he’s not coming after you.” Tony wishes he would.

The party is as loud as they expected and the drinks flow as fast as they had hoped for. Tony sips on a solo cup of bitter wine, determined not to get drunk since the comedown from the molly he took isn’t a fun one. He’s standing then talking to strangers then mingling with people he knows, but then again doesn’t really know, then he finds his way back to Natasha. Natasha, who is really starting to grow on him (maybe like ivy grows on trees).

She peers at him curiously, judging how wrecked he looks only half an hour into the party. She concludes what it must be. “I’ve been in this predicament before, you know. You should have some more to drink. It may sound stupid but it puts the bad feelings off for a while.”

“I thought it makes the feelings worse,” Tony shouts over the music, and Natasha makes a face before shrugging.

“Makes you not think about it, though, for a while.”

So Tony decides to get raging drunk. He mixes every kind of alcohol he can think of, every kind he can get his hands on, ‘borrowing’ from the people at school he calls his friends. He downs shot after shot and Natasha keeps an eye on him from a distance, staying mostly sober, knowing Tony is likely having a bad night already and he’ll probably end up crying and blaming himself in her arms. She doesn’t mind carrying him home if she has to, realising he’d do the same for her.

“And tell Steve I’m sorry,” he’s blubbering to a tall boy he reckons might be friendly with Steve, “because-” he hiccups, “-I think he’s, like, super mad at me.”

The boy tries to laugh along with an obviously very intoxicated Tony, believing that nothing he’s saying makes any sense. Natasha chooses the moment to butt in, shooting a wry smile at the guy before grabbing hold of Tony and hauling him through the front door.

“Hey,” Tony slurs, “hey, Nat, I’ve not seen you in ages. Can I call you that? Hey, where are we going?”

“Home,” she answers, “it’s nearly two in the morning, people are leaving anyway. You need to sleep.”

“I can’t sleep,” Tony groans in earnest, “’s too hard. I have nightmares. Wait, where’s home?”

“This way,” Natasha tells him and tugs on his sleeve before he leans into her and she is forced to support some of his weight as they trudge lazily down the uncharacteristically empty streets of the city. The bright streetlights bask a warm glow onto the top of Tony’s head and he hums in contentment.

A few minutes later, Natasha breaks the comfortable silence between them. “What do you have nightmares about?” She asks concernedly, hoping her friend is sober enough to reply with a decent answer.

Tony ponders the question with a comically jutted out lower lip then replies, “Sometimes I think I’m never going to see him again.”

“Steve?” Natasha presumes. “You see him every day at school. You have nothing to be afraid of. He’ll come around.”

“No,” Tony denies, furiously shaking his head and nearly tripping over his own feet in the process, “not Steve. My brother, Greg.” He pronounces the words slowly like Natasha is an infant who won’t understand. “’S been a… long time. My brain can’t figure out how long, though, right now. I dunno where he could be and my parents don’t even care to look. I just miss him.”

Natasha realises she shares a couple of classes with Gregory Stark, who she didn’t realise had been absent for so long - he was always a dilatory student, rushing in eight minutes into the lesson with a flurry of half-hearted apologies. Now that she thinks about it, she wonders how the school haven’t noticed the truancy problem and called Tony’s family about it to perhaps involve the local authorities. Shouldn’t they be taken to court? Gregory is just a kid, the same age as Tony.

“So I have nightmares,” Tony continues clumsily, “that one day the cops find him, or I find him, dead on some park bench or murdered in an alley. His eyes all glossy and still and his lips turned blue. And all that time, I was complaining about my life and my problems, and he… didn’t even exist anymore.” He stands up straighter, walking now rather than swaying along, suddenly sobering up. Natasha removes the steady hand from resting on his back. “I can’t even imagine what it’s like to not exist. After you die, there’s nothing out there, is there?”

Natasha avoids his friable gaze, not knowing how to answer. She doesn’t believe in that kind of stuff either, but is not guileless, and prone to lying for the night. “You can never be sure. Life itself is so improbable, who’s to say there isn’t even more craziness that happens afterwards?” Never let it be said that Natasha Romanov is an expert in comforting people.

They approach the corner that leads into Tony’s street and he halts abruptly. “Here’s fine,” he insists, not really wanting Natasha to hear the yelling from outside the door that is sure to commence. Sure, Howard never gave him a curfew but he always has reason to be irritated. Tony starts shaking, wanting desperately just to be able to go in, lie down, without getting a lecture from his parents again. They don’t know how to deal with him.

Natasha notices him trembling and blows out a breath. “Tony,” she says and digs into her pockets to fish something out and hand it to him, “take this. Calm down.”

It’s a packet of cigarettes, not even opened yet, the thin expensive ones Tony never wastes his money on. He doesn’t care to smoke too often but when it’s offered, he never declines. It’s an effective cure for his nerves. He swallows thickly. “Thanks.”

“I have to go,” Natasha announces, “are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah.” Tony assures her even though he can feel the claws of another sleepless night digging underneath his skin, and the alcohol-induced dizziness isn’t fun anymore.

“Try not to dream,” Natasha says like it’s the most obvious and helpful piece of advice ever and Tony finds it hard not to snigger, “remember Greg probably has a limited amount of cash and patience and he will eventually come home when his resources are exhausted. No matter where he is, he wouldn’t abandon you.”

She leaves with saying ‘goodbye’ and Tony is left taking a deep breath and pulling the handle to let himself inside his home.

The living room light is on and his mother sits on the sofa, brittle and insolent, a pointless television commercial playing low in the background. She barely turns her head to see her son but scrunches up her nose in distaste. “Tony, have you been sick on yourself?”

“No.” Tony says - he hasn’t, right? “Sorry, someone probably spilled… beer on me.”

“If you keep slamming the door this late at night, I’m never going to get any sleep.” Tony’s father grumbles as he enters the room clad in a dressing gown, rubbing his eyes as they adjust to the light. He takes one look at Tony. “Jesus, look at the state of you.” He steps closer and looks at what Tony is holding. “What’s this?”

Tony tries to move away but his dad quickly snatches the cigarettes from his grasp and waves them around almost incredulously, like he’s never seen them before. He fixates his angry glare on his son. Drinking is one thing but smoking, in Howard’s book, is another level of evil. “Care to explain?”

Tony grabs them back. “They call them cancer sticks.”

Tony should have expected the slap that sends him spiralling to the floor. The pulsating throbbing in his cheek is made distant in comparison to the shock of his father having struck him. He deserves it. It doesn’t take away the snarky feeling of satisfaction at his comment, however.

“Go to bed,” is all Howard says. Tony spares a last glance at his mother who still sits paralysed on the couch, indescribably miserable but speechless. He doesn’t talk back, this time, and instead decides to just do as he’s told.

He sits on his bed in the dark, beginning to feel the negative effects of the ecstasy wearing off again, and touches his swelling cheek. There is no doubt that he will wake up with a bruise. There is a cut with a small amount of blood seeping out from the impact of his dad’s wedding ring. He doesn’t bother to look in the mirror.

Tony removes a single cigarette from the plastic packaging in his lap and moves around tremulously in the dark to find a lighter. There’s one in the top drawer of his nightstand and he uses it to start burning the end of his smoke.

He opens the window and leans out, and smokes it slowly, savouring each drag like it would be his last, thinking about how Natasha would’ve spent her time going to a corner shop and picking these out specially and spending extra money on them. He is unable to cry, so instead settles for bundling himself under the duvet when he’s done and staying there, skipping school, for the next thirty-two hours.

*

The weekend is infinitely sad and lonely. Tony texts Steve, saying he’s sorry and he shouldn’t have offered him cannabis and they should be best friends again, but after not receiving an immediate reply, he gives up and sulks. It’s Steve’s right to distance himself from Tony but that doesn’t mean Tony can’t be mad about it. Soon, he’s got himself worked up and feels jittery, contemplating starting yoga or meditation then settling for taking drugs instead.

It’s ketamine, this time, because he’s feeling so low already so why not make it worse? Not too much, as he wants to be able to move around and tell the difference between what’s real and fake. Tony absolutely hates himself the second it’s in his system but ignores the self-loathing out of pettiness. Pettiness at the world, he supposes.

The drug makes him sluggish and woozy and he finds himself slow-dancing down the streets with a smile. His whole body is numb and he passes by a skyscraper made almost entirely out of glass, noticing his reflection and how his face is void of pain - but there remains the bruise. He grimaces and shakes it off.

Tony has truly convinced himself that nothing will ruin his torpid good mood until he hears his phone go off to indicate a text message. It takes him a couple of tries to get his thumb in the correct position over the home button to unlock it, and his smile fades away when he sees what’s on the screen.

‘Meet me in the alley where you threw up on my shoes.’ It’s from Steve.

If they were going to meet up, Tony would want it to be an accident. He would love to be skipping on the sidewalk, shimmying through crowds of stockbrokers and aspiring politicians, earphones up full blast listening to Ozzy Osbourne. He would crash into Steve and into Steve’s life, and it would be perfect because he would be caught in this beautiful moment in his day - a moment that would last forever, the sun never straying from its position in the sky. Tony, presently, curses the constructs of time.

In his glorious, flawless, fragile life, Tony’s feet would take him across an infinitely flat surface, no hiccups, no holes to fall into. He would not get stuck in any chasms. He would not slip into another world where things turn upside-down. He would live without the cycle of death. Tony is used to experiencing every day like something could go wrong at any second, and the thoughts plague him like a disease.

He chooses to go along with Steve’s request and his journey to the alley is full of ups and down, bumps along the road taking the forms of construction work and potholes. By the time he gets there, a familiar face is waiting.

“Alright,” he starts, and Steve whips around in genuine astonishment that Tony has turned up, “you don’t get to play this card anymore. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve said sorry, and how many times you’ve blatantly ignored me. So what’s up with you?”

Steve sighs guiltily. “I thought I should give you some time to yourself.”

“Oh, no. That wasn’t what I wanted to hear.” Tony’s starting to lose a little bit of feeling in his tongue and gums as a result of the ketamine. He fights to keep speaking without slurring his speech. “Aren’t we supposed to be best friends?”

“We’re not conventional best friends.” Steve jokes, then it gets serious again too fast. “I’m not even sure if… Look, it was just a kiss. And so what if you forgot to call the next morning? This shouldn’t have to reduce us to feeling awkward around each other, right? As for the weed thing, that was my fault - I overreacted. Tones, I’ve known you for so many years; this is stupid.”

Tony is about to say something but it feels like his teeth are about to fall out of his skull. It’s, weirdly, not an unpleasant sensation. He stands there with his mouth slightly open for a while before Steve squints his eyes in suspicion then figures it out. “Oh my God. You’re high, aren’t you? You’re seriously high right now.” His frustration rises and he scoffs audibly, turning away.

Tony steps forward, unsure of what he plans to do, but Steve only crosses his arms and shakes his head in disappointment. “This isn’t a good way to go through life. And I know I can’t say that when - Look, if you need me, you know where I am. Just please, Tony, I can’t see you like this.”

“Then how do you want to see me?” Tony snaps. “I don’t think I can give you what you want.”

Steve looks torn and forlorn when he whispers, “I just want to see you happy.”

It’s somehow the most ridiculous thing Tony has ever heard and it’s quickly turning into the worst conversation he’s ever had. He is, at once, livid. “I am not going to be happy! I want to see my brother and I want my parents to stay together and I want to stop being in love with you but none of those things are going to happen because the world doesn’t revolve around what one person wants!”

“You’re in love with me?” Steve is baffled.

“You’re an idiot,” Tony asserts, “but you’re an easy-to-love idiot.”

Steve doesn’t give either of them time to think it over before he’s making the bold decision to kiss the boy in front of him. It’s not supposed to mean anything, is all Tony can quietly remind himself. It’s easy. It’s like tying your shoelaces… drinking your morning coffee.

Tony breaks the kiss in horror and catches his breath. He can’t read the expression on Steve’s face. “Well, I’m a hell of a lot more confused than I was before,” he remarks, aiming for casual and cocky but falling short of the mark and sounding broken instead, “and… Wait. You… and Bucky… What ever happened to that?”

Steve can only look at Tony to the point where Tony wonders if he’s wearing his soul as a goddamn jacket or something, and says nothing. This is not how it’s supposed to go. Tony insinuates in an accusing tone, “You said you just wanted to be my friend.”

Steve says, “I love you, Tony.”

Tony doesn’t miss a beat. “You love the Tony that lives long enough to graduate high-school, to get his first tattoo, to run around the world and raise kids and grow old on a porch. There was never a porch for me.” That’s when he starts to cry, the first time in a long time. Huge and humiliating sobs. He gets closer. “I don’t wanna die, Steve. I don’t - I—” He weeps into Steve’s shoulder. “I’m scared. I’m scared, please.”

“I’m so sorry,” Steve hushes, and he’s crying too, his lips quivering with the effort not to scream out loud as his voice breaks and his heart breaks and he’s losing in every sense of the word. The boy in his arms is the one thing he never wants to give up, and the one thing that will tear him apart when he doesn’t have a choice.

Tony pulls away, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. The moment is over as quick as it arrived. “No,” he croaks, “I have to get out of here.” He turns on his heels and ignores the desperate shout of his name, and bolts out of the alley.

He wants to sprint out of the city and out of his own mind. Live in his perfect life of forever where bad things can’t touch good people. Because Tony knows, deep down, that he is a good person - and that as unfair as the cards are that have been dealt to him, they are the only cards he’s got, and they are the ones he must learn to play with. These are the chasms he must learn to leap over.

The crowds divert for the dark-haired boy as he wanders alone, seeming to form two halves where he is the symmetrical split down the middle. He walks forward as if he’s parted the Red Sea, and up ahead there is a glaring light. He squints, taking a minute to realise it’s the reflection of a wing mirror on a parked car, and then everything becomes clear again.

His brother waits on a bench, sitting with his ankles crossed and careful eyes trained on Tony. Tony resists the temptation to run to him, instead feeling weighted by the drag of his legs underneath him. He approaches Gregory, the decidedly most important person in his life, in the flesh, without indignation - simply surprise.

“Where have you been?” Tony’s voice is the denotation of relief.

Gregory says, “Trying new sandwich combinations. But then I figured something out about Subway. They have thirty-seven million different types of sandwiches, which is totally insane, and I realised that I would never have the time to try them all - and that I would rather spend that time with you.”

“I still feel this sickness,” Tony complains almost sheepishly, and it makes him sad, “it’s all the time.”

Gregory represses tears. He implores, “We should get the subway to Coney Island and go on the rides and eat rotten food because then you’ll probably be sick anyway, so what does it matter anymore? Then you’ll be better.” He’s already grabbing his brother’s hand and towing him underground.

Tony whispers, “You really think going on a rollercoaster will cure my cancer, Greg?”

Gregory doesn’t know to answer for a staggering moment before he averts, “I just meant you’ll feel better for a while. It doesn’t mean… Tones, I know this is terminal and…”

“Yeah,” Tony grieves, “but just let me have this, okay? Just let me be happy for a second.”

They wait for the next train to come.


End file.
